Softness In A Hard Place
by Kallios the Scholar
Summary: Marijuana makes you do strange things, things that you can't understand when you come off the high. Like kissing your sergeant. Chris/Elias slash.


**Disclaimer: I don't own _Platoon_ or any of its characters. Go watch the movie. None of its awesomeness belongs to me.**

**Warning: THIS. IS. SLASH. If you find this offensive, please just hit the back button and save yourself some trouble. I _don't_ rise to taunts or insults, and if you're going to be crude then all I'll do is ignore you.**

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Chris Taylor writes home often. Unlike a lot of the other grunts, there is no sweet girl waiting for him. Susan Walker, the girl he was going out with during college, had dropped him like a live coal as soon as he told her his plan to join the army. So instead, Chris writes to his grandma, and it seems that putting his experiences in paper somehow clarifies them in his mind. It helps him remember everything that happens, the vague trails of amateur philosophy coupled with his own experiences in the 'Nam. He composes letters in his head, making mental notes of things to include in the next message.

He tells her about jokes and songs if they aren't too dirty, about nearly getting bitten by a snake, about the food and the people around him, about some abstract view of God that makes a certain amount of sense if you think about it long enough (he wasn't expecting to overhear Junior explain his theological opinions, but he did).

Chris tells his grandma, in short, about most things that had gone on in his new life in the military. She has gotten these letters before, from her own husband when he was in WWI, from her son who was in both WWII, and now from him. Chris hopes that he doesn't bore her, but her replies are swift and prompt and speak of home. He keeps the soft, folded paper in his helmet, and sometimes stops to sniff at it, thinking longingly of a peaceful library.

And there are, of course, things that he doesn't write to his grandmother about.

He doesn't tell his grandma what someone with half a head looks like, about shards of skull and cerebral matter and blood splattering on the decapitated man's shoulders. He doesn't tell her about the "heads", about smoking stuff that isn't nicotine and good ole plain tobacco and losing his sense of self so that he can keep it all together. And he certainly will not ever tell his mother's mother about kissing Sgt. Elias. Nope, that is something best buried and forgotten, because Elias is _dead_ now, along with Barnes, and Chris just wants to forget about the entire thing.

He doesn't write home about the incident, partly because it isn't something that his grandmother has any need to know about—and partly because the letters back to "the world" are a bit like keeping a journal, albeit one that he can't go back and reread when he wants to stroll down memory lane, and if writing something down solidifies the event in his memory then he just wants to pretend the entire thing didn't happen.

But, in his heart of hearts, Chris Taylor sincerely doubts that he will ever forget.

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Chris Taylor had been sitting in a corner, staring at the ceiling, smoking pot and thinking deep thoughts as the party went on around him. A druggy's thoughts, clear and blurry at the same time, senseless and utterly serious at once. When his head cleared and the effect of the smoke wore off, he wouldn't be able to remember what he was thinking—only that it was pleasant, and a reprieve from letters and death and the constant, nagging fear that he was next on the Reaper's list. If he _could_ remember, the man wouldn't have been able to understand himself.

But that hardly matters.

Elias had come over to him, leaning against the wall, grinning down at the college drop-out with a thin, crooked, hand-rolled cigarette between his lips. His eyes are blue and friendly, as they almost always are, and he's wearing nothing but a few necklaces, his dog tags, as well as boots and his pants. The shirt is gone. The soft yellow candlelight is kind on the angles of Elias's face.

Chris looks up at him, wondering, trying to figure out what the sergeant is going to say before he says it. With other people, Chris can often guess the words coming out of their mouths the second before they actually speak, but Elias is a blank card and Chris is wrong in guessing with him as often as he is right.

In the end, Elias just says something along the lines of "come on" (his memory is no clearer than that) and Chris is being hauled to his feet and dragged into the party, the music and the lights swirling through his brain and making him grin dazedly. There is no pain. He is happy. Chris can remember being wet to the bone, tired to his very core, sick of greenery and jungles and the sound of gunfire. But here, here he is free of those things, and Elias has one arm around his waist and another around his shoulders. They aren't dancing, not truly, just shuffling their feet and grinning into each others' faces as the music makes them sway. The scent of smoke and sweat and sweet incense is all around them, blocking out those of kerosene and oil and jungle.

This is when the sergeant presses his mouth against Chris's, and his lips are soft and his mouth is open and he breathes smoke into Chris, hot and slow. For some reason this seems natural, and the pot has mellowed his feelings and this kiss between the sergeant and himself doesn't shock Chris, doesn't even faze him, doesn't make him angry at all. And it certainly doesn't make him pull away. He's kissing his sergeant, this blond man who is as kind as Barnes is callous, who teaches the new meat what to do rather than throwing everything in their faces at once and expecting them to handle it like the veterans they clearly aren't. Chris likes him, admires him, respects him, but he doesn't _love_ Elias and he has no doubt in his mind that he never will. But still, this is nice. The marijuana has softened his senses and dulled any pain that he feels, prompting Chris to just go with the flow and accept what happens to him. It seems that he can't feel any pain at all, that nothing will harm him, that when he's high everything is benevolent.

Which is why he lets Elias maneuver them both into a corner, where Chris exhales the smoke that his sergeant has breathed into him. Somewhere close by, he can hear King laughing, perhaps at something that somebody said and perhaps at he and Elias. It doesn't matter to Chris, it honestly doesn't. The sergeant has barked orders, ordered men to fire, killed so many gooks that he's lost count, but right now his mouth is sweet and soft. There is no smoke this time, no perverse reason for either of them to do this, but there's no reason to _stop_ either and so Chris doesn't. Just lets Elias kiss him, his back pressed against a wall, mouths working and eyes closed. There is no lust in this, at least not on Chris's part, and Elias shows no desire to do anything more.

When they stop, Elias rests his forehead against Chris's, peering at him with those friendly blue eyes. He's grinning, holding his subordinate close, looking lazy and contented and strangely peaceful. The sergeant presses his lips against Chris's one last time, closemouthed and oddly chaste, then breaks away with a laugh and turns his back on the private, wandering away in search of dope.

Chris Taylor usually doesn't remember much of what happens when he's high. Days afterward, he cannot remember a single word that was said to him once he'd had his first cancer stick of the evening. Those nights are a blur of reeling lights and sound, of laughter, of music whose lyrics and melodies he doesn't recall, of a vague and remembered happiness that he wants to get back to. His days are filled with slogging through the jungle, cutting through the thick foliage, sometimes coming across corpses thick with flies and maggots, being rained on and having the insect life of the jungle use him as a moving buffet. His nights (too many of them) are spent not-sleeping, of waiting for an attack that they all pray doesn't come. Resting, yes. Sometimes he rests and regains a little bit of strength. With all of that, those vaguely remembered nights of pot and candles and music are something he cherishes, a way to forget the struggling and the sheer horror of the situations he's bound to come across again and again and again.

But now, Chris skips a night in the bunker with Elias and King and the others. He remembers the kiss. Oh, yes, Chris remembers _that_. He isn't high now, he's cold turkey, his thoughts are clear and logical and not muddled by dope. What he wants is... what? An explanation? Elias has made no mention of the incident, hasn't treated Chris any differently since then. Maybe the sergeant doesn't even recall it. Likely. Chris is thinking of Susan Walker and comparing that girl who'd once been his to his own sergeant, and realizing that they weren't that different. He can't decide if the conclusion he came to is good or bad, and skips over the incident entirely in his letters home. Chris tells his grandmother about Barnes and Bunny instead, and rambles on for a few paragraphs about dehumanization and how it seems that if you spend too long in the 'Nam, you stop being a real person and become a killing machine instead.

But, eventually, King calls him back, asks Chris why he hasn't returned to the bunker. Chris goes with King and feels Elias watching him. But the sergeant stays in his hammock for the majority of the night, and dances by himself in a corner, singing along off-key to the music. Chris can't help but watch the play of the light on the blond hair, of his bare chest, and he also can't help but wonder if he's attracted to that sort of thing—ultimately, he decides he isn't. That odd kiss was just a stupid thing that happened when he was high.

Yeah, that was it. Totally.

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**Sooo... like it? Hate it? Wanna throw me to the gooks and their tender mercies? Please don't put this on alerts, because there will not be a second chapter. And remember: REVIEWS ARE GOOD FOR THE SOULS OF WRITERS. They inspire us, or at least make us feel good.**


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